


Enamoured

by Manfie



Series: Settling on Sorgan [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Heavy Petting, Kissing, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, Touching, com-link calls, fill in the blanks, steamy outtakes from my main fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manfie/pseuds/Manfie
Summary: Din and Omera work their way through their pining. Sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Series: Settling on Sorgan [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800025
Comments: 78
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And encouraging me to post. This is my first time writing something like this so I'm very nervous posting! Not super graphic. At least, I don't think!

It is incredibly distracting the way Din’s gentle fingers trace the features of her face, translating them into his own beautiful language as he goes. She tries her best to keep up, pronounce them correctly, all the while fighting against the reflex to open her eyes. But the notion that he trusts her like this is not lost on her, and she wills herself to keep her eyes shut tight despite his sweet torment. She feels terribly vulnerable like this, knowing that he has free reign to watch her carefully without having to avert his eyes, but it is also exhilarating.

She nearly falters when he brushes her lip, she can tell it’s just with one of his fingers, maybe his thumb judging by the other trembling fingers she can feel curled under her chin, but she’s been imagining his lips for so long that her brain very nearly short circuits at the soft contact.

He doesn’t translate it to Basic this time, he doesn’t have to, she gets the gist and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her lips catch only very slightly on the new stubble of his cheek and it has her stomach coiling, breath hitching, fingers digging into the rounded muscle of his shoulders.

He translates the word for kiss and she is stuttering to get it out quick enough so she can finally do just that. His hands instantly splay flat along her shoulder blades and draw her impossibly closer. The knees she is sitting across lift from the bed ever so slightly and cause her to slide a little off balance and into him, but she only encourages the movement by scooting herself closer.

Her fingers trail up and into his hairline, knitting throughout the lengths and eliciting a low groan to rumble from his chest and into the quiet air around them. She is only sliding her lips softly over his, maintaining a slow pace that he has no trouble keeping up with. She has him nearly plastered to the wall with her body, surely knocking his head back against it with her eagerness. She just has time to think she should maybe loosen up a bit, then she feels herself tilting off balance again as he is tipping them sideways, lips still connected as they ease slowly down until they are laying. Well, that solved that problem.

She hears the crinkling of the sheets, the pressure in the mattress before she feels his weight over her, rolling her onto her back and hovering above. She can tell he keeps most of his weight distributed on his arms, holds back from being completely on top of her even though she wishes he wouldn’t. And he’s still kissing her with fever, she’s nearly gasping between movements of their lips to draw in a breath, her chest tightening and stomach coiling so tightly she feels she is going to implode.

“Wait,” she suddenly pulls back, placing firm hands on his chest with a soft push. He instantly stops, laboured breath fanning her face and she can see his shadow behind her closed lids as he retreats, so she twists her fingers into his shirt so tightly they must be nearly bone white. She doesn’t want him to think he had done anything wrong, the entire opposite actually. She was just completely overwhelmed and worked up. “Can you turn the lantern out? It’s getting hard to keep my eyes closed with everything you’re doing.”

She hates how breathy her voice sounds, huffs an embarrassed laugh and bites her raw bottom lip. He laughs lowly too, and she senses his withdrawal without actually seeing it.

“I’ll miss watching,” he says, switching the lantern off and bathing them in darkness. She tests her eyes open one at a time, she cannot see a thing, not even the silhouette of him above her, but she feels his proximity. “The expressions you pull let me know I’m doing this right.”

“Din…,” she groans, his words making her toes curl in her thick socks and she twists her fingers into the material at his biceps. “You say the sexiest things. Everything you do is incredible.”

She’d be embarrassed if she weren’t so turned on, her face flames and she threads her fingers back through his hair. He doesn’t say anything, and she wishes she could just see even the tilt of his helmet to get some indication of what he is thinking. But then he is capturing her lips again, and she likes to think maybe he is unsure how to respond to her praise, so just focusses on kissing her as thoroughly as he can, working all the longing and yearning from his time away into her pliant lips.

They continue at that pace for a time, and she tries to remain patient with him, never pushing further. He is very slightly pressing over her and his hands only wander to respectable places. His in her hair, cupping her cheek. And hers on his shoulders, sweeping his back.

But that doesn’t stop her from almost wishing he wasn’t so honourable, that he would let his warm hands drift to less respectable places, but she’d probably make a fool of herself. They had yet to deepen the kiss beyond slanting their lips along each other’s and she was already so worked up. Her hands are firm as they press him down on top of her and allowing him to set the pace is becoming increasingly difficult. Especially when she wants to drag his body entirely over hers, fusing them from head to toe. She hears as he adjusts his position, feels his leg hesitating at the side of hers. She knots her hand into his shirt over his back to stop it from drifting down and pulling a thigh between her own.

His body is _right there_ , and she wars with herself to not subtly move her hip closer to him, feign an accidental brush just to see if he is as worked up as she is. The thought appals her, the last thing she wants is to make him uncomfortable, but it is a tempting idea, nonetheless.

His hesitating leg settles back into its original position, respectfully at her side and keeping his entire lower half clear of her. A whimper rushes up her chest and she manages to catch it in her throat. But the strangled gasp she makes instead is no better. Din instantly pulls back.

“Did I hurt you?” He pants into the dark, hands removed entirely from her.

She doesn’t trust her voice so shakes her head even though she knows he won’t be able to see, trails her hands around from his back, up his chest until she can hold his face. The scratch of his stubble against her palms makes her stomach knot with desire and she lifts her shoulders off the bed as she pulls him down for a fierce kiss. She swallows down the hot air of his groan and relishes in the feeling of his arm snaking all the way around her, yanking her against his torso.

He uses his body to push her back down into the softness of the bed and she wants to cry in joy when his hesitating leg no longer hesitates. His thigh covers hers as he moves further on top of her. She hopes it is with subtility that she widens the gap between her legs to accommodate one of his. Subtle or not, his knee lands as intended and she is just thinking about opening her mouth under his, nipping at his bottom lip, when the tiniest press of his leg has a low moan escaping her.

He makes a choked sound in response but then breaks away with a heaved breath. She releases his face instantly and instead gives him a reassuring squeeze to his shoulders, the solid muscle underneath grounding her frenzied fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters softly, sounding so overwhelmed, yet defeated, that she feels the need to reassure him multiple times that there was nothing to be sorry for. Not at all. And a part of her too is relieved to take a break. It was sensory overload, as if she were the one who’d gone most of her life never feeling the touch of another. Somehow the pitch blackness made it even more so.

She continues to offer soft reassurances, using her hands on his shoulders to gently ease him onto his back to lay down at her side. He lets her guide him, remaining silent all the while, and she imagines he is probably holding his breath as he tries to make sense of what she wants.

Once she assumes he is lying comfortably, she settles in to rest her head on his chest, a shiver running through her as she feels his arm adjust underneath her so that he can wrap her tightly into his side.

Self-conscious in a way she hasn’t been in years, she cranes her neck slightly, trying to keep most of the weight of her head off him, but he seems to sense she is holding back because his free hand hesitantly brushes back the hair at her temple. This time he is guiding _her_ to relax and the rhythmic pounding of his racing heart and equally quick breaths settles her.

Of its own accord, her hand skims over his stomach and she feels his abdominal muscles contracting at the barely-there touch through his thin shirt. His fingers dig deliciously into her waist where his arm is wrapped around her and the one woven in her hair freezes and retracts. She begins to trace lazy circles with a finger, trailing up to his sternum then back down to his stomach.

His initial start at the contact dissolves into a satisfied hum and she feels the muscles pull taut as he adjusts his shoulders to get more comfortable. She feels his breathing slow, and hers does too, the white-hot inferno in her belly easing into a slow simmer, still exhilarating but much less impulse-driven. She resists the urge to snake a leg over his, tangle them together and snuggle in, but then she is on a verge of dozing off, the few cups of spotchka she’d drunk catching up with her.

He calls her name softly and a grin spreads her lips. She’d heard her name uttered from his lips only a few times, and it made her treasure the way it rolled off his tongue like a prayer. She hums in response, but he takes a few beats to continue, “… I want to show you my face.”

She is so startled that her finger falters in the design she is tracing and she wonders what slipup she’d made to make him think he had to do this.

“Din…,” she is quick to lean over him, cup a hand to his cheek. “I don’t need that.”

She is hesitant beyond belief, it wasn’t a secret that she in no way wanted to change him, alter his very way of life, and she’d told him as such the first time they’d kissed. She expected very little from him, only what he was willing to give. What he had already given her was more than she had ever hoped would come of him stopping in on Sorgan.

But he is firm in his decision, regaling all the reasons why he needed this. Soft reassurances and rationale as if it was _her_ that was the Mandalorian about to show her face.

She can hear the emotion, the way his voice cracks at the mention of her being his clan, his family. By now they have both sat up and her chest is about to burst with his confession. Tears prick at her eyes as she stares into the blackness in front of her where she knows he sits. Thoughts are spiralling through her mind, indistinguishable in their mass to the point she cannot focus on one coherent train.

The sound of the mattress shifting under his weight cuts through her mind and reminds her she has yet to say a thing and she blinks rapidly against the sting in her eyes.

“Please say something,” he croaks, and she feels testing fingers drift blindly to her cheeks, spreading the moisture that has fallen there. “Are you crying?”

She shakes her head before he has even finished his question, suddenly aware of how that must seem. She hadn’t even realized the tears had fallen. She is laughing softly in joy by the time she manages to string her sentences together.

“Sorry, I’m not upset. I just never thought I’d feel this way again. And for you to say you want me… as a part of your _aliit_? I’m so happy. I was already always yours, but does this mean… you might also be mine?”

She cringes at how it sounds even in her own ears, so needy, but she forgets all that when his confirmation is just as desperate. She practically tackles him with another kiss, and is giddy to feel his equally zealous response.

He pulls back before they can lose track of their original intention and she waits patiently with her eyes squeezed shut as he organises himself. Bright red light sparks behind her closed lids as he switches the lantern on, but she can see the shadow of him in front of her.

She waits for him to be ready, unable to focus on anything other than his trembling fingers threading into hers and the gentle squeeze he gives as the go ahead to look. She opens her eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust to the light after being shrouded in darkness for so long, sees his lap in front of her. One leg is crossed in front of him and the other hangs over the edge of the mattress.

She fights to keep her pace steady, but finds herself rushing quicker and quicker as her eyes roll up his body, cheeks strained in a permanent smile. Then she is taking in his face, eyes snapping to his instantly, and she is captivated.

His eyes, warm brown as he’d said, are bottomless and kind, holding her gaze steady and she realises he isn’t used to averting his eyes when making eye-contact. Not that she minds. She can see his nerves in his frown, the way his brows are ever so slightly puckered. His lips are set in a firm line, and doing another once over of his entire face, she realises his emotions are completely unguarded.

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” she murmurs absently. Beautiful. And his face was, but it was the face of a stranger, and she had to fight against her instinct to withdraw as she rolls forward onto her knees.

She lets her eyes close as she trails gentle fingers over his face, every dip and curve achingly familiar as she pieces together what she feels with what she had just seen.

“It is you,” she smiles, opening her eyes and seeing the relief wash through his.

He smiles very slightly, one side of his mouth quirking up, and she feels her stomach fly up into her throat. He was _so_ handsome, like she’d known he would be. But she hadn’t accounted for the expressive quality of his features or the boyish mused hair.

It’s absurd that he even asks of her approval, as if it wasn’t painstakingly obvious that she did. To think he’d been hiding such a sight under his helmet all these years, the galaxy was definitely missing out. And she strokes his ego as much as she can, happy to see the nerves washing from his face with each compliment and being replaced by an endearing redness over his sculpted cheekbones.

She cannot keep her hands from his face, trails a thumb over the sharp line of his jaw and feels her stomach coil tightly once more. The heat builds slowly, as it had been since the moment she’d set eyes on him, and now her belly churns with desire.

“Well, now you know I was telling the truth,” he says, distracting her momentarily and she watches his mouth form the words. “I’m always smiling when I’m with you, my eyes are always on you, and I go just as red as you.”

When he is finished, his hands have somehow wandered to her waist and she moves closer to him absently. He is watching her intently, the lightness gone from his eyes and replaced with a piercing heat. They flick to her lips and his own part in anticipation, eyes sliding shut. She makes the connection between their lips first and watches with heavy-lidded eyes as his squeeze tightly at the contact, desperation clear in his furrowed brows and the notion casts a shiver down her spine.

She loves watching his reactions, but struggles to keep her eyes open, so lets them slide shut too and loses herself in the sensation of kissing him freely. His mouth is already slanting hurriedly over her own and she races to catch up with his pace, barely even pausing to open her mouth over his and test the gentlest swipe of her tongue against his bottom lip.

He chokes at the contact, clutches her tightly into his chest and holds his mouth still for her exploration, as if unsure how to proceed. She edges at his lip gently again, then with more confidence ventures deeper until she meets his own tongue. He learns quickly, waiting for her to lead by example and using the time wisely to adjust their position, dropping back down onto the bed and dragging her body on top of himself.

She settles between his legs, her hips cradled in the valley of his, chest to chest. He is kissing her back feverishly, blunt nails digging into her back, constantly moving as if unable to find a place to settle that satisfies him. She is getting more and more worked up, teeth gently pulling at his lips and eliciting a heady groan from deep in his chest. He tries to mimic her, but it only has their teeth mashing together clumsily in a way that only invigorates her more with the primal need of it.

Her hands trail to the hem of his shirt, not sneaking under as she’d like, instead tugging at it in frustration because she wants it off, but knows that is probably crossing a line. He breaks the kiss, turning his head to the side and breathing heavily, but the way he still clutches her close reassures her. She drags her lips to his jaw, transfixed on kissing the underside with hot, open-mouthed caresses even as the rough stubble tingles her raw lips.

“I don’t know if I’m ready…,” his deep voice rumbles, thick with desire and regret.

“I know,” she reassures and forces herself to slow down, inhales into his neck deeply before placing a settling kiss and pulling back to look into his flushed face. She almost forgets that she is trying to slow down, because seeing him under her like that, looking so thoroughly wrecked, makes her skin scorch. But then also seeing the wariness in his eyes reminds her that despite how incredibly he participates, this is all new to him.

“I got carried away, sorry. I’m happy, more than happy, as we are…,” she expresses, glancing down from his eyes to watch her finger trace the divots of his collar bone. “I just wanted to touch more of you.”

He doesn’t say anything straight away and when she glances up into his face again, she sees his lips are curled into a devilish smile, cheeky and unaware of its appeal. He still doesn’t say anything, only moves to sit up and she does too to give him room.

They are sitting across from each other, eyes locked, and then he inhales quickly and reaches for the back of his shirt, giving it a quick yank and pulling it over his head. She feels her eyes widen as they drop to his chest, mesmerised. He is all hard muscle and smooth golden skin.

He reaches for her hands, gently encircles her wrists and brings them closer, hesitating a moment before laying her palms flat against his chest. The initial contact has him jumping, a hiss escaping between gritted teeth, but he seems to adjust within seconds and the grimace leaves his features.

She traces the lines of his body slowly, increment by increment, and alternating between watching his eyes and his skin to gauge his reactions. The skin is so taut and alluring that she has to restrain herself from massaging into the muscles like her hands long to do.

He has the body of a warrior, but only very few areas of skin have the spiderweb lacing of scars, clearly where his armour didn’t cover. The newest looks to be on his right bicep, and she remembers with a pang when he had sat behind her cauterising it.

Done with her inspection, she eases forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his collar bone. Dragging her fingers up to loop behind his neck, she pulls him down on top of her this time, letting him settle between her legs and releasing his neck to run short nails around to his bare back.

And he initiates the kiss this time. She lets him take the lead, deciding when to deepen it and what pace they set. He’s pressed down tightly on top of her, elbows supporting most of his weight at the sides of her head and working her back into a frenzied mess. He’s doing so well at it that it is a complete miss-sight the first time she rolls her hips into his, and the friction is so glorious that she forgets herself for a moment.

His lips stammer against hers, half-way through a kiss that leaves their mouths gaping open and breath mingling. Judging by the feel of him against her, his body appreciates the pressure too. Emboldened, she rocks her hips again and feels her lips twitch into a smug smile as he grunts, buries his face in the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Her smugness is quickly whittled away when she feels a sharp pinch there as his teeth connect on her flesh. It is in no way painful, in fact, it only makes her stretch her neck sideways to give him more access, greedy for the soft catch of his light stubble and the wet warmth of his mouth.

She swallows thickly between pants and her hips twitch with the need to relieve the pressure again, so she drags it out slowly, heels pushing into the bed for leverage. Halfway through, he retracts his bite from her skin and pushes up onto a hand so he can look down at her.

His eyes are dark and wild, roused hair sticking up in disarray and chest heaving with laboured breath. She’s crossed a line, and she instantly abandons the motion to relax her pelvis back down into the bed, even presses down firmer than needed to give him space.

Heat creeps up her neck further as she watches his eyes roam down her body between him and the bed. And then he grinds so incredibly slowly into her, eyes flitting around her face intensely.

The tension is so much better than what she had accomplished, and she hisses through her teeth, snaps her hands to his forearms and digs her nails in to somehow ground herself.

“Is just this okay?” he grunts out in a hushed rasp. “For now?”

“ _Stars_ ,” she moans when the pressure dissipates. “I think if it was only ever this, it would be more than okay.”

His huff is clipped, like he really wants to laugh but the sensations are overwhelming him. This time when he rolls his hips into her, it is just as slow, but so firm that the cot creaks beneath them. Her eyes squeeze shut against the sensation and she meets him halfway, pressed as firmly as possible to each other. Her fingers are numb from the desperate grasp she had on his arms and she worries in the back of her mind that she’s left crescent-shaped marks from her nails. Her hands snap to his hips, hooking into the material and guiding his hips against her. A moan she didn’t realise she was capable of making echoes in the barn, and when she opens her eyes, she sees he is staring at her as if in a trance.

“Why are you watching me?” she breathes, suddenly self-conscious and words hitching at the end as he initiates another roll.

“Watching you react to me…,” he trails off, clears his throat against the sudden hoarseness. His deep groan charges straight into her stomach and winds her, and when his head drops in defeat into her neck, she is relieved to not be the centre of his attention for the minute. She allows her eyes to roll back into her head and drag in a steadying breath. “Even my dreams couldn’t conjure it.”

She can only imagine what his dreams must entail, and her heart flutters to think he has thought about her like this before. She knows she certainly has about him.

“But I might need to stop now, is that okay?” he chokes and draws back slightly, but she can still feel him, solid and desperate against her.

She is just as desperate and ready, body humming with anticipation, but a part of her is relieved that he suggests slowing down too. She breathes a soft laugh and weaves a hand through his clammy hair, “It’s probably for the best. I don’t know how much more of than I could take.”

It is as if she’d never done this before. She admits to herself that it has been a long time, Winta’s father was the last man she’d even kissed before Din, but even so she doesn’t know if she ever remembers it being like this.

They settle in to just cuddle, thoroughly worked up and in need of a breather. She relishes in this moment, being nestled in his arms with such a large expanse of his warm skin on display. She wants to feel his skin on hers, but is somewhat cautious judging by how her body reacted while she was still fully clothed.

So, they will navigate the unknown together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din and Omera find themselves alone in the forest...

She listens to Din’s absurd spiel that only confirms her suspicions, he has no idea how incredibly handsome he is. Even as he says it, she imagines the same nervous expression he’d had when he’d shown her his face. She’d constantly replayed his features in her mind since that night, and now she ponders what he would look like in the daylight.

The sun streams down brightly, but close to the tree line as they are, the thick canopy provides a dappled shade. She wonders if the sun would pick up the undertones of his brown hair, if it would shine with the deep warmth of red or the bright amber of blonde. She knows his eyes would still be kind and open.

“You knew that was never a possibility,” she assures him, leaning in for a gentle headbutt.

It breaks her heart that he doesn’t realise her feelings, but she comes up short when thinking of how else to convince him. And she’d meant it to be purely innocent, but the moment they make contact, that seems like an absurd thought and she moves her hands to hold him tightly.

He presses his helmet back into her desperately, stepping closer and crowding her against a tree. She almost wants to whimper, needing the contact just as desperately and holds his helmet firmly to her, fingers cramping from the death grip they have on his cloak.

His helmet’s modulator registers a croaking sound, as if his breath catches when his body presses up tightly against hers, a rigid hand settling onto her hip and fingers digging in. His other hand isn’t on her, but she can hear the distinct crunch of bark near her ear and imagines a fist clenching and unclenching against it.

The sensation has her eyes snapping open to her own reflection in his visor, but she gazes past it, picturing his reddened face and wild eyes instead of hers. She gives a breathless smile, air escaping her in a rush. His entire body is pressed to her, armour unyielding, but when she feels the firmer pressure of his pelvis, she really does whimper.

The sensation is so overwhelming and, worried she will make a fool of herself, she abruptly yanks the edge of his cloak aside and latches her lips onto the side of his neck to stop any further embarrassing sounds escaping her. He groans in return, his helmet thumping forward against the tree and she moves her lips in an open-mouth kiss along his thready pulse.

He maintains the heavy weight against her throughout her ministrations, but when she tries a gentle suck, his hips do a jerking twitch before committing to a deliciously slow roll. She is so dazed with the friction that she barely feels him drag his hand down from her hip, hand fumbling before getting a firm grasp to the back of her thigh. He very slightly tugs it, as if he isn’t even sure what he is doing, but when she eagerly lets him guide her, he wastes no time in wrapping her leg around the back of his thigh.

The pressure of the roll dissipates but the sharp edge of his thigh guard digs into her, so she hikes her leg up higher and the new angle has her tongue faltering against his feverish skin.

His breath is huffing out unevenly too, and when he initiates another slow roll, she uses the push against her as leverage to bring her other leg up too.

Instantly his hands go to support her, hoisting her up so her legs are free of his weapon belt and holster. He drops his head to her shoulder and she withdraws from his neck to watch him as she squeezes her legs tight. The friction has her head thumping back against the trunk as his helmet nuzzles into her neck and his entire body slumps against her.

“We might need to slow down,” he mutters, his voice a gravelly rasp as he gives a soft laugh. “My legs are going to give way from what you’re doing.”

She squeezes again and his helmet bolts up to watch her, pushing forward to rest against her forehead and she tucks her fingers back into the neckline of his cloak, looking deep into his visor. She feels the way his throat works in a deep swallow against her knuckles.

“Maybe we should lay down then?” she offers on a breathy whisper.

He inhales shakily, straightening his posture and pushing up against her more in the process until she is shuddering.

“Yeah, we should definitely lay down,” she sighs.

But neither of them are particularly eager to do anything other than push and pull against each other, the rough bark at her back snagging in her hair and the thick woven fabric of her dress. She decides that a small sacrifice now will be worth the reward of finding a better position, so she eases her legs down from around him, knees weak and jittery. He makes an instant sound of disapproval, skimming his hands up from her hips as she does until she feels their trembling pressure at her ribs. With one last nuzzle against her forehead, he steps back begrudgingly, and as feverish as she is, she does not appreciate the chill of his absence. But that can be easily remedied.

She takes a hold of his hand, grinning into his visor like she is a teenager again and not the grown woman she is, and drags him back towards the outpost. Near the fencing by the cliff face, she’d noticed a small secluded alcove of trees when she’d been showing him around. She had mostly overlooked it at the time, but now she can think of many ways to put such an area to good use.

It was unlikely that anyone would stumble across them in these parts, but she also knows she would very nearly combust from unfulfilled want and need if they were to be interrupted.

She releases his hand now that they’re standing before a tree at the very corner of the alcove, and his hands straight away shoot to his thighs, pulling the gleaming armour guards off as well as his weapon belts with jerking movements. He piles them up and then settles down on the ground to lean back against the tree trunk.

Coyly, even as he is reaching for her with a hand and encouraging her down onto him, she moves to sit astride his legs, thankful to feel just firm muscle underneath her instead of armour.

“Can I take this off?” she asks softly, hands holding his helmet delicately.

He nods eagerly, pulling her against his chest with his hands as well as a risen knee behind her seated position. As soon as the helmet clears his lips, they are searching for hers and she wants to cry in relief when their dry warmth presses to her. She is very conscious that she is holding his helmet still, the very symbol of his Creed, and somehow manages to gently set it down at their side despite the onslaught of sensations his lips are causing.

Once it is safely aside, she trails her hands up to hold his face, thumbs feeling the sharp angle of his cheekbones and fingers splayed over his jaw. A soft catch of stubble invigorates her, heats her exponentially as it causes tingles to shoot through her lips and palms.

His eyes are screwed shut tight, face reddened beyond what she would assume was normal for him, the bright colour trailing down his jaw and disappearing under his cloak. Even though she could gaze at him all day, feels as if she needs to while she is able to appreciate him without the helmet, she wants to get lost in the sensations and eases her eyes shut too.

He opens his mouth under hers, leading the way with little hesitation. She twists her fingers into the softness of his hair, unsure of what he is doing with his own since she feels them leave her sides but not settle anywhere new. But there is the clumsy brush of his arms on her waist as he fumbles out of sight behind her back, his frustration clear in the set of his lips even as he slants them over hers.

There is a soft scuffle in the dirt then it is as if a switch has been flipped. Suddenly his kisses turn more measured, practiced, and she feels a greater warmth barely settle of her hips, his hands applying the slightest pressure. He’d taken his gloves off.

Her hands dart down to find his, encourage them onto her hips like she knows he wants to but is too afraid to initiate. That’s when she notices he has also removed the vambraces too, forearms solid and tense under her touch. She grips both of them tight, encouraging them to apply a firmer pressure to her hips before dragging up, taking the sleeves too until the fabric is bunched at his elbows and she has free rein over the exposed skin of his forearms.

She wriggles to get closer when his lips pause, leaving his mouth open against hers and a timid tongue touches hers. Her stomach churns heavily and she returns the gesture, guiding him when he hesitates until he gathers his confidence and is kissing her with fever.

But she needs more. So she flattens herself against his armoured chest, hands squeezing his biceps and sits heavily down on his lap.

And she can _feel_ him, his fingers digging into her hips and guiding the movement, pulling her down harder as his hips raise to meet her. The knowledge excites her, that he is very much affected, his body reacting, and the sensation of him against her has her drawing a shaking breath with no choice but to break from his lips. She pants against his ear, a strangled noise, as scratchy stubble grazes her cheek where she holds his face firmly to hers, fingers knotted through his hair at the back of his head. His breath puffs against her, choked, and his hips and hands shudder with the strain of every muscle being wound excruciatingly tight. His entire body is rigid, a noise she thinks he isn’t even aware of rumbling at the base of his throat. She feels the need to comfort him, so brushes her lips to his burning ear, breathes a soft hush and gentle kiss.

He swallows thickly, hands leaving her hips and she leans back an inch to gaze into his eyes, worried she’s done something wrong. But his face tells a different story, eyes alight and face flushed, hair in a complete tangle thanks to her musing. His dark eyes trail her face frantically, his mouth quirking into a half smile and he pulls his cloak over his head to cast it aside. She just sees his eyes snap to her lips before her own are captivated by his bare neck.

The rise and fall of his collar bone speaks of his laboured breaths, the blotchy redness of his skin disappearing under his body suit and armour. She wishes the chest-plate and pauldrons could join the rest of his armour piled at their side, wanting to feel as much of his body as possible. But she knows being in the open with the armour he is already missing is more than she could have ever hoped for.

Nervous under his careful scrutiny, she closes her eyes again and leans in to kiss him and pick up where they left off.

She is two seconds away from pressing her hips back into him when they are tipping sideways, Din expertly clutching her tightly to his chest with one arm and using the other to support the both of them as he lowers their forms to the ground. She feels the warmth of his cloak under her, cushioning her from the compact dirt and stones of the ground and she feels a new appreciation for him.

That had been a very smooth move.

She feels a giggle rising in her chest at it, only for it to be interrupted by a groan as he settles over her, weight supported on his elbows while still allowing enough of his weight to press her into the ground pleasantly. He captures her lips again, timing the swipe of his tongue with a roll of his hips.

“Din…,” she sighs his name, breaking the kiss before she does a truly awful job of continuing, but keeps a firm grip of his hair to keep him close. She’d always been good at multitasking, but in this instance, she fears her kisses may turn jolting and clumsy, a complete mismatch to the overwhelming rhythm he has managed to maintain.

_She_ was supposed to be the unaffected, experienced one, but she was failing miserably.

He grunts softly in response and pushes his face snuggly into her neck, working kisses into the over-sensitised skin there. His lips move just as they had against her own; slow, open-mouthed, and intermittent firm drag of his tongue soothed with a gentle suck. She is writhing against him, can feel as he surely leaves bruises along her neck, trailing over to her shoulder as he uses his nose to nudge her collar aside to reach the skin there. It is as if he is determined to leave no patch of her neck and shoulder untouched. She doesn’t even care if he leaves marks there, in fact, she hopes he does. Her thick hair will be able to cover them either way.

Her panting in his ear only seems to encourage him more, the roll of his hips becoming more frequent, steady pacing maintained even as her chaotic movements must be distracting. She bends her knees up to attempt to get a better angle, settle him tighter against her, but it still isn’t enough. She figures there is no preserving her dignity at this point anyway, so wraps her legs around him.

And that may just be enough.

She snaps her eyes open and the moan she lets out is guttural, the pleasure building exponentially as the new angle gives her leverage to squeeze around him and meet his movements. Soon, though, his hips falter and he pushes up onto one hand, his other holding her hip firmly to the ground and away from his own.

She drags her eyes from the swaying canopy above them to look into his face, his lips pursed and eyes screwed shut tight, almost in a grimace.

“What’s wrong?” she breathes, fearing she’d overstepped some line, or that it didn’t feel as incredibly amazing for him as it did for her.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, looking down to her in concern and she sees the sincerity in his eyes. The constant play of emotions over his face, completely unguarded, still has her reeling because it had been so unexpected. She’d spent all her time trying to figure out what minute movements of his helmet meant, the set of his shoulders, the fleeting gestures, only for him to take off his helmet and it all be laid bare on his handsome features. She welcomes it wholeheartedly.

But she’s once again gotten distracted chasing emotions across his face and realises she hasn’t acknowledged his response.

“I just… I’m nearly…,” he trails off, unease knitting his brow and casting his eyes in shadow. “If we don’t stop, I’m going to…”

He looks thoroughly embarrassed.

_Oh_.

Clearly, she hadn’t done anything wrong, the opposite actually. She looks into his eyes and smiles sheepishly, feeling giddy to have warranted such a reaction from him, and she desperately wants to see it through to the end.

She cranes her neck up so her lips can brush his ear, and she squeezes her knees and calves to grind as firmly yet slowly as her raging hormones will allow.

“Me too,” she whispers, though it cuts off in a moan at the peak of the roll. She hopes that comforts him, to know she is the same and very nearly at her breaking point.

He hisses at the confession, breath sucked in between gritted teeth and he lets out what sounds like a helpless laugh as he attempts to extract his hips from hers. But something in him clearly _does_ break, perhaps his willpower, and he falls heavily back down onto her, hips fusing back to hers and rolling continuously, the careful paced rhythm of before completely forgotten.

His mouth devours her neck and shoulder again, heated breath washing over the wet trail his lips and tongue leave. He is less careful to hold his weight off her now, but she revels in it, his chest-plate a comforting pressure over her racing heart. One of his hands locks onto her hip bone, urgent fingers digging in, and the other is wound up to cradle underneath her head.

She stops trying to match his rhythm and just works to chase the sensation even as their movements become completely uncoordinated and erratic, and she’d be embarrassed if she wasn’t so turned on. Because she is two seconds away from it all coming to a head and crashing down around them.

The sharp scratch of his teeth sends goose bumps erupting all over her skin from head to toe, and her hands roam his back, alternating between clutching at the armour plate there, twisting into the coarse material at his lower back, or sweeping up into the silkiness of his hair. The gentle noises of the forest, the slow rustle of leaves, chirping of birds and insects, is interrupted only by the drag of their clothing against each other and huffed breaths.

It all builds and builds, until her eyes widen in shock and a strangled gasp escapes from her agape mouth and into the still alcove. The corners of her mouth twitch into an astonished smile and Din’s continuous movements draw it out further.

Then he is nuzzling urgently into her neck, his nose jutting up into the underside of her jaw and a groan from deep in his chest vibrates through her too. His hips work one more gloriously slow roll as his groan cuts off and she feels him relax, rigid muscles in his lower back easing. Her stomach flips at the realisation, of what had just happened, what she’d _made_ happen.

She only just gets to appreciate the lazy aftermath before he is freezing up, hands leaving her to support his weight and pulling his lips back from her neck, though his face still remains hidden out of sight.

She unwinds her legs from around him and stretches them out along the ground to tangle with his. She tries to peer at his face, wondering what could be wrong, but then recognises what she is seeing instantly. His demeanour looks horrified, most likely at himself.

She quickly twists her head to kiss his cheek because she is unable to reach his lips from where he is still hunched near her shoulder, and strokes her hands reassuringly from his wrists to his elbows, squeezing as she goes.

“It’s okay,” she breathes, tucking her hands under the pauldrons to squeeze his biceps, reassuring herself just as much as him before her next confession. “I did too.”

Her words spur him to life, and he pulls back to look down at her in wonder, dark eyes drinking in her face as if he can’t quite believe what she is insinuating. The intensity of the look rattles her, and she is once again reminded that he isn’t used to carefully schooling his features. She feels her face heat and shyly reaches to brush her hair behind her ear, only to find it is all splayed out below her anyway. A nervous habit, much like his hand settling on his blaster.

“You make me so…,” she begins, but isn’t quite sure how to finish that sentence so trails off in a half laugh, reaching to trace over the features of his face. “This isn’t the first time. I’ve… _thought_ _about you_ before.”

“When?” he insists, moving his hand to her face and caressing her bottom lip with a thumb, watching her mouth for her next words. “Why?”

She clears the croakiness in her throat before responding, “Quite a few times, actually.”

She is fascinated to see an almost smug glint flash across his face and then he is watching her carefully. She is very conscious that his entire body is still over hers, and if he keeps looking at her like that, they are going to wind up right back where they started.

“What did you think about?”

“Din!” she gasps with an incredulous laugh, holding her hands to her face to hide the reddening from him. “This is embarrassing! Don’t make me spell it out.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I just never would have thought…”

“Well, you thought wrong,” she laughs again, and he looks so apologetic that she strokes his arms again to let him know that for all her debating, she doesn’t really mind discussing it.

“Before you left the first time,” she relents and sees his eyes widen. “And while you were away. And obviously recently.”

She laughs, when you listed it all like that, it was _a lot_ , but she’s sure no one could blame her. He looks so astonished, which is completely mystifying to her, but is reminded that he very clearly does not see his own allure.

“That much? When you didn’t even know my name?”

“Yes, I did tell you it would be nice to finally have a name for when I think of you.”

“I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well, I didn’t mean _just_ that,” she laughs again, because he looks so alarmed at the knowledge. “I’ve been completely infatuated with you since the moment we first met. I’ve never been so attracted to someone, and I’ve only just gotten to see how handsome you are.”

He considers her words for a time, a faint blush colouring the tips of his cheekbones and he looks to her with a shy half-smile, “… I thought about you too.”

“Yeah?” she encourages, stomach flipping and heart racing.

He nods, watching her carefully before continuing, “Often. I never… did anything about it. I have before, but never when thinking of someone, just more to relieve tension. But I thought about you… in lots of ways. And if I’d ever done anything, it would have only ever been to thoughts of you.”

_Stars_. This was the furthest from any conversation she had ever imagined having with the reserved Mandalorian, but she drunk it all in greedily. She was getting worked up all over again, now unable to picture anything but him on his ship, alone. And Cara’s suggestion about using the com while he was away, at night all alone, suddenly flashes in the forefront of her mind.

A thrill ripples through her, to know that he is most definitely a man under all the armour, and that perhaps before her, he’d found no need for _that_. Well, aside from relieving tension, as he’d said. There was something so innocent, and so _Din_ about it that it made her heart thud.

It all just made her want him that much more.

She is blushing and smiling at him like an idiot, to which he returns briefly before a pained look washes over his face. She mirrors it instantly, opening her mouth to ask what the matter was when he waves her off.

“I’m fine, just need to sort out this situation, doesn’t feel the best.”

She can’t help the exhilarated chuckle that she lets loose as she pecks his cheek quickly, “Let’s go then, there’s a stream not far.”

He catches her lips with his own before she can retreat entirely, their warmth and soothing slant making her briefly forget that they were supposed to be stopping. He pulls back before they can get too invested, that same smug glint in his eye, “Sounds good.”

He removes himself from her and offers a hand to help her up. Retrieving his helmet with one hand and grasping his with her other, she staggers on shaking knees, laughing softly. She doesn’t resent the helmet, not one bit, it just makes her treasure her time with him in its absence more. So, she gently knocks her forehead to his own before easing his helmet back over his head, smiling warmly to reassure the apology in his eyes.

They make the short walk to the stream she’d mentioned, and she gives him some privacy as he ‘sorts himself out’. It is not long before they are making their way back to the speeder like giddy teenagers after a session behind the krill shed. And she is embarrassed to say that it took it out of her somewhat, for she is slipping into a half sleep against Din’s shoulder on the ride back.

She’d woken that morning with no expectation of their time alone and away from the village, but now wonders how she is ever going to manage to remain demure around him from now on. It would certainly do no good if his people came and saw how she lusted after him. He’d said to not change a thing, to be herself, but even she wasn’t prepared for how her hormones ran riot when he was involved.

…

“So, any progress?” Cara asks a couple of days later as Omera is packing baskets of food to take to the outpost for their days’ work. “Is there any update on my daily fix?”

She knows exactly what she is talking about even without the waggling brows and nudging elbow. And her mind instantly flits to their time in the forest the other day, a deep blush pooling in her cheeks that makes Cara boom with laughter.

“Ah oh! That looks like it must have been a juicy thought!”

Omera elbows her back playfully, wondering if she should be discussing this with her friend, and casting a scoping eye to see if anyone would overhear. Luckily, everyone was mostly preoccupied with packing up for the day ahead, so if left her and Cara alone in the hall for the time being.

“You have to promise you won’t say a word,” she urges, deciding that she is overdue for a gushing session anyway.

“I swear it,” Cara affirms, hand on heart.

Omera finishes packing the basket she had been working on, wetting her lips in nerves on how best to explain it to the other woman. She pushes the finished basket aside and wrings her hands nervously.

“The other day, when I showed Din the outpost. We were in the woods and we… we just kissed,” she explains, and Cara nods along eagerly. “And it led to where it sometimes does…”

A knowing look overtakes her features and she nods a final time. “Were you dry humping again?” she asks as if that was normal conversation.

Omera reddens even further with the words out, but nods anyway as she avoids Cara’s leering eyes. She fidgets with her dress, fingers knotting into the worn material, then she looks up with a thoughtful smile, “Only it wasn’t so _dry_ …”

“ _Kriff!_ Like in his pants?” Cara asks, brows shooting up into her hairline.

“I made him though. He wanted to stop but I encouraged it,” she quickly defends, wanting to preserve Din’s dignity, but then thinks she’s already failed miserably at that. He’d probably be horrified if he knew she was saying all this to Cara, and the thought makes her nauseous. But despite that, she cannot keep the shy smile from her face. “It was so… sexy. In such an innocent way.”

“What about you?” Cara asks with a conspiring quirk to her brow. “Is he a considerate… _dry_ lover?”

She snaps her lips shut around a snort, butting Cara with her hip playfully as she fluffs with the baskets unnecessarily to occupy herself from the blush she feels rising up her neck, “…he is.”

Cara doubles over in a roaring laugh, choppy hair falling across her gleaming face and reaching a steady hand to clamp on Omera’s shoulder as if needing the support, “Omera! Kriff, what will it be next? The old ‘pull out just before’ idea of contraception?”

“It’s probably too much information, but I feel this… need to claim him somehow as my own. I have these…,” she brushes her hair aside and adjusts her shoulder, so the neckline of her dress edges down a bit. Cara’s eyes widen at the telling signs of their foray in the forest, and Omera grins as she carefully brushes the hair back over her shoulder to conceal them. “And he does too, but no one can see his.”

“That’s a doozey he’s done on you,” Cara says, comically pointing to her neck as Omera gathers a basket. “It is too much information though; I don’t need to know where you’ve been sucking him.”

“You’re terrible!” she laughs, appalled at Cara’s suggestion and juts her elbow at the other basket for Cara to take. “You’re making fun of me.”

But when she sees her face, she can tell the other woman is only kidding, and suspects she secretly likes those details more than she’s letting on.

Cara merely shrugs, gives a raise of her brow, “Come on, days-a-wasting. Can’t just fawn over your man all day.”

Omera shakes her head in good nature and follows her friend out to the speeder.

_Her man_. She likes the sound of that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late-night com calls...

When Din finally coms her that night, she is just on the cusp of sleep, but the blearing red bulb on the com-link has her squinting into the darkness. It takes her foggy mind a moment to register what her eyes are seeing and then she is reaching a fumbling hand out to the nightstand to retrieve the device.

She flicks the switch over as quick as her sluggish fingers will allow, she doesn’t know how long the com had been blinking and she worries she might have missed him. She tucks the com close to her chest and uses the other elbow to push up until she is sitting on her bed.

“Hello?” she whispers, careful to remain quiet so as not to wake Cara and Winta, though she doubts they will have even stirred.

“Hey,” Din replies instantly, the deep rumble of his voice familiar through the modulator.

She sighs his name, now fully awake, eases off her heavy blankets and pads across her room. They speak quietly as she makes her way to the entrance of her hut, quietly stuffing her feet into her boots before exiting.

Stepping out onto the porch she notes the crisp bite to the night breeze as her breath puffs out in fog as they talk. In her mind she isn’t even sure where she’s going, but her body seems to know as her legs carry her across the village and up to the barn.

He tells her of settling in at the outpost, and she feels pride swell within her as he says the Mandalorians appreciated all their hard work. She steps through the threshold of the barn as they continue to speak, and her eyes sweep his living space with a peculiar mix of sadness of his absence, but elation at being able to at least speak to him.

Then her eyes find his bed and she feels a fluttering in her stomach, walking as if on stilts until she stands before it. She runs a hand along the straightened sheets, and she wonders if he’d slept here the night before, or given it up to the others. The village had provided them with enough bedding for them all to sleep comfortably, but she knows if that hadn’t been the case, Din would likely have offered to take the floor immediately. The thought brings a saddened smile to her face, why he thought anyone else was worth more than himself was completely beyond her.

In contrast, she now debates that she could sit at the table, but it would be much more comfortable on his bed, right? He didn’t have to know, and surely he wouldn’t mind anyway. So, she eases herself down gently to sit on the edge, gnawing the inside of her cheek subconsciously.

But then her plan is foiled as she is made to tell the truth when he expresses concern of her out in the chill of the night.

“…I’m sitting on your bed actually, is that alright?” she tells him, and he makes a soft sound of approval that causes a wide grin to stretch her cheeks. “Then I’m all yours.”

“I like the sound of that,” he murmurs, a husky edge to his voice that is only vaguely familiar. She is certain she has heard the same hoarseness before, but it was definitely not a common occurrence.

And the comment is so unlike Din that she finds herself giggling softly, face heating, and she slinks back against the wall to slump down to get comfortable. It reminds her of the night he’d shown her his face, him leaning against the wall and her all but driving him into it.

“Which part?” she asks coyly, a warmth simmering away in her stomach slowly at the tone of the conversation. “Me sitting on your bed, or being yours?”

“Both, but I should be there with you,” comes his instant reply.

She thinks it funny how they were so much more confident over the com-link. They continue their back and forth, but she remembers he is still doing his scouting and has mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, she wants to speak with him freely, not distract him, but on the other, she fears he may end the com once he has finished.

So she asks if they can speak a bit longer, if he’s alone, and as he responds she slumps further on his bed, the gentle rhythm of his voice only succeeding to make her face flush and stomach riot.

There is silence from his side of the line, but when he speaks, his words are suddenly clipped, hesitant in the most thrilling way. “Are you…are you laying down?”

She lets a soft exhale of agreement escape her and stretches out along the mattress. His bed was comfortable, soft, and her next words slip out, “But it feels weird laying here without you…”

Her eyes are snapping wide open the minute the words are spoken, and she feels heat pool in her cheeks and scratch up the nape of her neck. He is quiet for a time, and she cringes at her stupid slipup, but then he _does_ respond, and she is hanging on every word.

“I wish I was there with you. It’s pretty cold tonight. I could…,” he trails off uncertainly, a nervous edge to his voice, and rather than the statement she thinks he’d intended, his next words come out more as a question. “I’d keep you warm?”

Her stomach drops with nerves, heart thrumming in her chest, and she thinks not for the first time, that he somehow manages to be undeniably sexy while still being boyishly innocent. And it is a fatal combination on her barely restrained hormones.

“Yeah? If I’m honest, I’m the opposite of cold right now, but I’d still welcome you to keep me warm…” she trails off.

 _Stars_ , does he hear how breathy she sounds? How completely overwhelmed?

“Why’s that?” he utters quietly from the other side of the com.

She wets her suddenly dry lips, though her tongue feels just as much like sandpaper, a heavy lump lodged in her throat. She was a grown woman. She should _not_ be this affected by a mere com call.

“Why am I warm?” she asks, waiting for his gentle hum before she dares to continue. “Just… thinking about you… and how your bed is much more comfortable when you’re pressing me down into it. Under you.”

She almost wants to take that back, has a couple of seconds to feel the stirrings of regret, until she hears his choked reply, “You feel good under me.”

“What about on top?” She tries, a smug pull to the corner of her lip.

“That too,” Din groans and lets out a disgruntled sigh. She imagines him running a hand over his helmet in frustration as you would through your hair. “If it didn’t take hours and I knew you wouldn’t be asleep, I’d be on the speeder back to you right now.”

Her heart lurches, stomach coiling so tight that she bites her tongue to stop herself from pleading for him to come home.

“Well, I’m a bit too worked up to be able to sleep any time soon anyway,” she tells him in a low voice, and somehow in her mind she thinks that is supposed to help the situation. “I’ve been thinking about the times we’ve been together, _alone_ … like in the forest. Sorting out the outpost was a good distraction but now…”

She trails off and he doesn’t fill the silence, and it is enough to make her come to her senses. She has said too much, got swept up in the moment again, and she wants to kick herself. She was constantly telling herself to take things slow, let Din set the pace, but then her hormones take hold and slowing down is the last thing on her mind.

“Din?” she asks softly into the com, guttural edge to her voice easing as she fears she’s offended him. “Sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable–”

“–You’re not,” he urges quickly, cutting off the tail end of her apology with his tense reply, but then he is stammering. “I just… I’m… there’s a lot of _tension_ …”

Her lungs constrict, a heaviness settling over the centre of her chest. She remembers a conversation amongst the whirlwind of emotions in the forest the other day. Of _tension_ , and how he’d said he had _relieved_ it in the past.

The thought has her smiling shyly, to think he is just as affected as she is right now. It thrills her to know that he is most definitely a man under all the armour, she’s seen that herself of course, but to know his emotions too are not as reined in as she’d once thought.

“Oh,” she breathes, curls onto her side and revels in the comfort of his bed. “Do you need to _relieve_ it?”

It was what he’d told her, that he had only ever done _that_ to relieve tension, and never with thoughts of anyone, but that had now changed. The deep recesses of her mind ponder whether he has since done so to thoughts of her. The confession was only a few days prior, and since that time, had he been in the barn, late at night and lonely…?

She hears as if he has sucked in a sharp breath, her ears picking up a shuffle from his side of the com as she imagines him squirming in his seat inside at the outpost. There is a distinct choking sound and it causes her heart to flutter. Was he getting as worked up as she was?

“Me too,” she sighs, teetering on the edge of if it actually being a moan. She wants to reassure him, let him know it isn’t just him. “There’s nothing to distract me from thinking about how you make me feel, how _your_ body feels. And it makes it so hard that you aren’t here, but I’ve gotten pretty good at imagining…”

 _Stars_! Did she really just say all that?! Surely it is the late night getting to her, surrounded by the memory of him, the lingering heady scent of him in his sheets.

She wants to retract her last statement, but is cut short when she hears him clear his throat, take the time to swallow before his next words come out in a husky tumble, “Can you tell me?”

“Tell you what I imagine?” She asks in a voice stronger than she feels. Inside, she is a nervous, hormonal wreck.

He hums lowly and it shoots her right in her stomach. This was all so crazy! The last thing she ever imagined doing was talking over a com-link with a devastatingly handsome bounty hunter, telling him all the delicious things she imagines him doing to her. She twists her legs together tightly at the thought, the slight pressure so glorious she feels a sigh choke in her throat.

The night is silent and still, so she lays amongst Din’s sheets and keeps her voice as low as she can as she recalls her fantasies.

* * *

Din clutches a hand tightly over the bottom edge of his thigh guard to anchor himself, his other hand a twitching fist laying atop the table by the com link. This is the furthest from how he’d imagined this com going when he’d started his perimeter check. 

He hears Omera take a shaking breath, and then her voice softly flits through the air and he is hanging on her every word.

“In the beginning… I’d just think about you,” she starts, and he bites his tongue to stop himself from egging her on straight away, begging her to continue. “You were so intimidating in all your armour, I never even imagined what was under it, just watching you was enough. Then I got bold and would touch any part of you I could that wasn’t covered by the armour. And then I saw your bare hands…”

“My hands?” He chokes, said hands beginning to lose their sensation with how rigid their grip is. If not for the gloves, he imagines they’d be bone-white from lack of blood supply. In all honesty, his entire upper half must surely be lacking from the turbulent rush south at her breathy words.

She softly hums through the com, voice managing to capture the precise tone between dreamy and sultry, “Stars, they were all I could _think_ about. I’d imagine what they’d feel like on me, warm and strong. How it would feel to grip your bare arms, cling to your neck. But now I’ve seen your face, your chest, kissed you and had my hands in your hair… watched the expressions you pull, especially like the other day in the forest…”

She trails off and he almost lets the groan loose, his face unbearably hot under his helmet and his cloak feeling smothering against his flushed neck.

“I close my eyes and I imagine how I can touch you to make you look like that again…,” she continues in a whisper.

He can’t stop the guttural curse that escapes him, though thankfully it is in his own language, and she doesn’t seem offended in the slightest judging by the hitch in her breath. He utters her name in a strangled whisper, feeling entirely uncomfortable where he sits, so he straightens in his seat, heart hammering against his chest plate as he fists his hands atop his thigh guards.

“Din…,” she sighs softly in response and he squeezes his eyes shut against the picture of her lounging on his cot, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. “You told me… you’ve… but never while thinking of anyone…”

His eyes snap open to the com link sitting on the tabletop, and he glances up quickly to the entrance to make sure he is still alone. He remembers telling her that the other day, when she confessed thinking of him, even in the very beginning. It had done things to his body at the time, and now was no different. He was ashamed to admit he was very nearly ready to burst.

He hadn’t been lying in the forest, he’d only ever _done anything_ to relieve tension, and hadn’t done so at all for a truly long time. But that wasn’t to say he hadn’t _thought_ of her in recent days… because he most definitely had. He wonders now if she is asking without really uttering the words, for as confident and sensual as she sounds, he knows she is just as nervous as he is.

“You’re all I can think about now. I’m not…,” he begins with clipped words, unable to voice what he is suggesting, to tell her he _wasn’t_ , but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to. And if he’s honest, it would be over all too soon if he did.

“But I don’t think I need to even do anything,” he confesses with a nervous laugh instead, a compromise, then clears his throat and lowers his voice again. “And you…? Are you?”

“No, but if you keep making me tell you what I’m thinking, then I might have to,” she utters softly, a nervous edge to her voice too, the laugh she gives is breathless.

He considers her words, shoulders tense and his armour suddenly feels immensely heavy.

He clears his throat quietly, twitching fingers relaxing from the fists they’re wound into, “Maybe… maybe you should.”

He waits with bated breath for her response, for her to be appalled and yell at him for being a pervert. But she doesn’t, and the hitch in her breath knocks the wind from his lungs as she utters a hesitant ‘okay’.

Okay? Okay?! His body rages at the thought, at the image his mind conjures. He is teetering on the edge and he waits a moment to gather himself to make sensible words.

“Are you?” He asks softly, the huskiness to his voice unable to be masked even by the modulator.

A soft sigh registers over the com before she speaks with a coy reply, “Maybe a little.”

He groans again, and it seems to spur her on more judging by the pitch of her breath.

“Imagine I’m there… that it’s me,” he suggests tightly before he can stop himself, wanting nothing more than to be right beside her, but is suddenly self conscious. The last thing he wants to do is turn her off, so he quickly backtracks. “If that helps.”

Clearly his concerns were unfounded, because when she speaks again it is all breath and passion, “It definitely does.”

She gives a soft giggle that he returns with a huff of a laugh, but he doesn’t say anything more. He listens to her gentle breathing for a moment, there isn’t really any indication of _what_ she is doing, but he’s gotten pretty good at imagining too, and it is more than enough.

He feels lightheaded, as if he’d drunk more than his fair share of spotchka, and his heated breath fogs up the inside of his helmet. It had become unbearably hot trapped inside his armour, but the weight of it is enough for him to close his eyes and just manage to picture her straddled across his lap.

The whole situation is enough to make him nervous, a careful eye on the entrance to the commons encase one of the Mandalorians happens to stroll on in. It is unlikely, they were mostly exhausted despite their obsessive need to show no weakness, but somehow that added to the thrill of it all. Who knew he was so messed up? He thinks, glad Omera was not privy to his inner thoughts.

“Maybe next time I could…,” he starts without really meaning to, but she is already softly murmuring in question, so he figures he might as well commit. He wets his lips anxiously and pushes his nerves aside. “… I could do it for you?”

He wonders if it sounds as much like a question to her as it does to him, he definitely didn’t mean for it to. But this time it does make her moan, low in her throat and strangled, as if she is trying to suppress it. He wishes she wouldn’t, the sound was like music to his ears.

She begins to groan his name but it cuts off part way through and trails off into a gentle exhale as if a wave of calm has settled over her.

His face and neck flare at the realisation and he fidgets in his seat, desperate for any kind of relief because he has become so tightly strung. He groans her name with a curse under his breath, hand clamped like a vice around the edge of the bench seat.

Suddenly her gentle laugh carries over the com, nervous in its breathiness, and the laxed state of pleasure is distinctly different from the previous tension so obvious in her tone.

“Are you alright?” she asks, voice wary. She is clearly aware he must know what has transpired, especially with her next question. “What about you…?”

“Listening to you and remembering how you were in the forest…,” he tries to explain. He doesn’t want to sound like an immature adolescent in this regard, but that ship has probably well and truly sailed. “It’s enough to make me…”

He trails off, unable to voice that he is two seconds away from following right behind her, but she no doubt catches his meaning anyway judging by the slightest smug lilt to her hum of approval.

That sound alone has him coughing to conceal the moan he feels racing up his throat, and he manages to just speak between gritted teeth, “I’m heading back first thing in the morning.”

She hums again, dozy, and he imagines her as she’d been on the speeder back to the village that day, warmth slumped against his shoulder and resting heavy hooded eyes. From her side of the com he gets nothing but contented silence, but on this side his body is beyond tired and desperate to follow her into the bliss of the aftermath.

By the time they end their com, the coiling in his stomach has lessened only slightly, just enough to be able to give her a decent goodnight. Rather than a hunger-induced confession of how she had affected him, or let her help him find the bliss she just had. He knows she’d offer, would be more than happy to oblige, but he isn’t quite ready for that just yet, and he thinks she must realise that too, because she doesn’t broach the subject.

Hearing her like that had only fueled the candle he already had lit for this woman, to the point that he admitted his feelings in the deepest way Mandalorians knew how, yet let her believe he had merely been saying he would see her tomorrow. And she trusts his explanation so blindly that his stomach drops again, but not in the heated coiling of before, but the chill of undeserving blind faith and trust.

They finish their com and he heads straight to the showers. The pipes groan with water passing through, something that had clearly not been the case in many years. The water is luke-warm from deep underground, the spray just hitting his armour and forming small beads of condensation from where he stands off to the side, kicking his boots aside and wringing off his gloves.

The water is cool to his feverish skin, and he is blissfully content to not have the suffocating cloak around his neck any longer. But it does nothing to calm his raging hormones, the picture of Omera in his cot etched into his brain even as he squeezes his eyes shut against the visuals.

He is desperate for any kind of relief, and the thought sickens him as his mind pulls up all his memories of Omera. It was one thing to just need the relief, but to think of her in such a way…

But they had discussed it, and she hadn’t seemed to mind, not one bit actually. So, he thinks maybe it is okay, just this once. Just until he can see her again and she no longer has to imagine.

He knows he is being ridiculous, she’d just told him she pictures him, had done so _while he listened!_ And the thought was nothing but flattering. That knowledge and memory alone is enough to have him at his breaking point as he gives in to his body’s desires.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din makes good on his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update! 
> 
> Ahh! I am so nervous posting this one 😳. It is somewhat more suggestive than the others, but I still tried to leave a bit to the imagination (because I think maybe it's a bit steamier that way and mostly because I just CANNOT describe these things 😅). I kept trying to write my main fic chapter but this one kept calling to me. Maybe once you start writing the steamy stuff you can't stop.
> 
> Aaanywho, thanks for reading! ❤️❤️❤️

Omera follows Din deeper into the hull of his ship, watching his back and allowing a giddy smile to grace her face as they discuss the night before.

“It’s a strange sensation,” he says in response to her comment about the tonic he’d drunk last night. “My mouth still feels numb.”

The modulator picks up the lightness to his voice, the very soft hint of a chuckle, and she’s missed the sound so much that she feels her stomach is a fluttering mess. It has also probably got a lot to do with the fact that he has brought her attention to his mouth, one she cannot see, but has no trouble envisioning the quirked side grin he undoubtedly is pulling.

So she gets bold, feeding off that energy and stepping up closer to him.

“I think I know a way to solve that,” she retorts, pretty pleased with herself, and she knits her fingers together behind her back.

“What’s that?” he asks in return, stepping closer too, and she gets the distinct impression that he knows where this is going.

With a gentle smile she lifts her hands slowly to the sides of his helmet, asking with her eyes as her palms settle on the cool surface. He makes no move to withdraw, almost seems to gravitate more toward her, and it is all the encouragement she needs to slowly ease the helmet up.

Her greedy eyes trail his face as it is slowly revealed, and she feels her lips widen automatically as their eyes meet once more. The dark shadows beneath his eyes are fading, the dusky grey undertone of his skin having livened up to his usual warmth. There is little evidence anymore of the hardship he faced while away.

The thought makes her heart soar with relief and she removes the helmet entirely to hold it delicately in her hands. Rolling up onto her toes, she leans in to place a gentle kiss to his lips, eyes easing shut at the last moment. She leaves it at a light peck, retreating after a lingering pause that has him rocking forward to follow her, but she is already back on her heels and watching as his eyes flicker open.

“Better?” she asks coyly.

He takes the helmet from her and sets in on a nearby crate before hesitant hands reach for hers, gloved fingers skimming her palms, “A little.”

He is still so hesitant after everything, but it only endears her to him more. She takes the final step, until her body is brushing his, and takes their laced hands to settle on her waist. The warmth and pressure of their weight makes her stomach flip as she glides her hands up his arms, hooking over the top edge of his chest plate as she stretches up to kiss him again.

He draws her in closer, his mouth following the pace she sets easily as if they’ve done this a hundred times, rather than just the handful of kisses they’ve shared. She slants her lips along his, gentle and unhurried, though she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t trying to get him worked up with the press of her body against his.

But her plan backfires and she instead feels herself getting caught up in the moment, kisses turning breathy and firm, fingers twisting into the folds of his cloak at his shoulders until her knuckles are white.

She isn’t sure if he is aware that his fingers at her waist are restless, the digits intermittently digging in and caressing, a gentle massage that has her dragging his lips with her own in heady open-mouthed kisses. The hot rush of his breath into her mouth is invigorating, as if he is breathing life and desire into her, and her jaw tingles with the sudden yearning to bite as her lips tremble.

So she nips at his bottom lip softly, soothes it with a gentle suck, and revels in the way it makes him draw her impossibly closer. She grins against his lips and pulls back a fraction.

“And now?” she breathes, opening her eyes to find his screwed shut, feels the desperate press of his forehead to her.

He hums softly and opens his eyes, the warm brown darkened until she cannot distinguish pupil from iris. His hands splay her lower back and he inspects her face, stopping finally at her mouth.

“Getting better,” he grunts out, a lingering peck at the end.

She chases his kiss, shaking hands flitting to the edge of his chest plate to yank him closer. She draws in a turbulent breath and watches his mouth, “Is your tongue still numb?”

The heavy pounding in her ears is deafening, but she thinks she can just hear the groan she feels vibrating up from his chest before he rumbles his confirmation.

She only gives him one heavy, preparatory drag of her mouth against his before edging at his lip with her tongue, tasting the sigh he breathes as his own tongue meets hers. And whether it is numb or not is beside the point, because the rhythm he sets is enthralling and enough to make her breath leave her in a huff as she presses tightly against him.

Her fingers thread up into his hair, gripping and twisting the strands without her entire control. She isn’t sure who is responsible, whether she pulls him or he pushes her, but either way she ends up wedged against the ladder leading up to the cockpit, the rungs digging into her shoulder blades as his body crowds her.

He keeps a hand on her waist, but the other curls around the edge of the ladder and braces her tightly between his body and the metal, all the while his mouth is dragging and slanting along hers. He tilts his head to get a better angle and her body reacts of its own accord, stepping up onto her toes and yanking down on his neck to get closer, her pelvis pushing into his.

He staggers a step closer, something she didn’t think possible, and he drives a groan into her lips and her body back into the ladder rungs with his hips. Her entire body flares at the sensation, to the point that she doesn’t even feel the digging in at her back, or the way his armour pinches her.

A gasp between the dragging of lips has him breaking the kiss, and she glides raw lips over his cheek, his jaw, the light stubble scratchy, skin feverish in a way she knows isn’t from his wound. His head slumps forward, resting on the ladder as he catches his breath, and she trails her lips up to his ear.

She peppers kisses there as his body continues to trap her with his, and he makes no move to retreat. Her breath is panting as her lips skim the shell of his ear, the same anticipation twitching in her jaw until she cannot help but to drag her teeth along the cartilage.

His whole body tremors at the sensation, a grunted moan huffed into the air and he grips the ladder rungs at her sides tightly, uses it as leverage to press his body to her.

Her teeth are just committing to a gentle bite when she realises how cruel she is being. She gives a gentle sigh and places a soothing kiss instead, trying her best to withdraw but cannot help but to linger.

“Sorry,” she breathes against his ear, stomach fluttering at the way he leans into her lips. “You’re healing. I shouldn’t be encouraging it.”

Without warning, his hands grip her waist firmly and hoist her up onto the bottom rung of the ladder. She fumbles to get her footing, arms hugging tight around his shoulders and a surprised giggle escaping her.

Now she doesn’t have to step up onto her toes, or him lean down into her, their heights are matched and he uses it to his advantage to capture her lips once more in a hungry kiss.

“I’m healed,” he works into her mouth, all breath and firm pressure, and it does nothing to help her argument.

She can barely even remember her argument with how his mouth moulds to hers, how her added height has them lined up better… _everywhere_. There is a truly desperate press between them, but it isn’t really enough for her.

And clearly not for Din either. He steps his body back a fraction and she focusses on kissing him thoroughly, not letting the disappointed pout show on the lip he is currently drawing between his own in a gentle suck. But then he is wedging a booted foot onto the rung between her feet, hand drifting to the back of her thigh to urge her leg up and around him.

He sinks in closer once more, his foot on the ladder allowing his thigh to press deliciously between her legs. As he drags bruising fingertips back up to the side of her hip, he gives her bottom lip a slow bite. The sensation is overwhelming, and she uses the calf wrapped around his hip to tug him in firmer, a slow roll of her pelvis igniting a steadily building inferno in her belly.

She chokes on a groan, breath leaving her all at once as she tips her head back against the ladder and desperately tries to clutch at her dwindling restraint. He is not disheartened by her breaking the kiss, instead presses his nose into the junction of her neck and gives a strong pull, and it is as if a moan is stuck in his throat too.

“The other week…,” he murmurs after a moment, giving another slow inhale before trailing his nose along her neck to her jaw, then back down and out to her shoulder. He follows the path back and forth, and it tickles while somehow making her skin flare too. “I asked if maybe I could…”

She is barely able to register his words, let alone their meaning, while his ministrations are sending shock waves throughout her body. She hums for him to continue, fingers of a hand knitting through his hair and holding him close while the other has a desperate grip on his bicep.

She feels his shaking breath against her skin before he speaks again, “The first time I com’d you. I was at the outpost and you were here… in my bed.”

That jogs her memory and her heart stutters, remembering that time, in the dead of night, in his bed with his soothing, rasping voice over the com-link…

Her face reddens at the memory, and she wants to tell him she understands what he is getting at, doesn’t need him to elaborate more because she is embarrassed enough as it is. But her hormones urge her to let him continue, to hear him utter the happenings of that night.

She’d always loved hearing his rumbling voice, but hearing the unbridled heat and longing in his words was beyond anything she had ever imagined. And she had definitely imagined, many times.

So her hormones win out now, and she encourages him on.

He swallows audibly and presses his face into her neck once more, breathing his confession against her skin softly.

“I told you to imagine I was with you, that it was me,” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy, and he skims his lips along the column of her neck until his light stubble is scratching at her ear. “And you let me listen.”

She closes her teeth on the inside of her lip, is sure he isn’t even aware of how undeniably sexy he is, how every single thing about him only draws her in more. Her heart pounds and her stomach throbs as she works to control her breathing, the desperate need to rock her body against his again.

“Maybe now I could…,” he trails off, giving a gentle nudge up into the underside of her jaw before pulling back to watch her with dark hooded eyes.

Just mentioning that particular com call had her worked up, but the insinuation that this time he might…

It makes her breath catch and she bites down harder on the inside of her cheek as she gazes back at him.

* * *

She watches him with the most peculiar look on her face, and he thinks this time he has surely overstepped the very fragile line they have drawn in the sand. He waits for her to rear back, utterly appalled, but then suddenly she is kissing him again, hauling his body impossibly close.

And he is more than happy to indulge for a moment, relieved that she at least wasn’t so offended as to push him away. The kiss is heated, but the movements are almost second nature to him at this point, as clumsy as they are. He works to follow her lead, knows he fumbles and is surely not the best kiss she’s ever had, but he’s content to spend the rest of his days working through that.

The hot drag of her lips and roll of her hips has him tightening his fists around the ladder, using it as leverage to press up against her body tightly. The knowledge that she must feel _every_ part of him would be enough to make him withdraw, if he wasn’t so desperate for the pressure too.

She hasn’t responded to his statement from earlier, whether agreeable or not, and he can’t stop his lips forming the question now, nerve endings zapping and tingling in anticipation.

“Is that a yes?” he mutters against her lips, never stopping in the firm caress with his own even as he peeks his eyes open to watch the movement of his mouth against hers.

He has to fight the groan that rushes up his throat, the sight so invigorating and carnal.

She breaks the kiss with a laboured breath, pressing her forehead to his firmly before giving a shy nod, avoiding his gaze entirely.

His body recognises her confirmation before his mind can catch up, and his heart thrums erratically against his ribs while it waits for his foggy head to clear. And when it does, he cannot help the grin that stretches his lips, and the returning smile she gives is breath-taking.

He presses an urgent kiss into her lips again as he abandons the ladder rungs in favour of drifting a hand to the back of the thigh wrapped around him. She seems fairly distracted, which is likely why she doesn’t react when he supports her weight there. His fingers are probably bruising in their pressure, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and he uses the opportunity of her preoccupation to pull her other leg over his hip too and hoist her up.

“Din!” she gasps away from his lips, though he can hear the mirth in her semi-scolding voice. “Your wound!”

The added closeness sets his body ablaze, nerve endings going haywire in the most enthralling way, and his only regret is that the move had her drawing back from kissing him. It is easily remedied though, for she seems just as eager as he is when he presses reassurances into her lips.

“The bacta healed it mostly,” he utters, lips dragging hers along with them as he speaks, and he momentarily loses his train of thought because he isn’t sure how something so simple could be so alluring. But he gets back on track quickly when she seems to hesitate, and he continues. “The kid did the rest. I’m healed.”

He had been bitter about _ad’ika_ healing him, tried his best at the time to stop the little one. But when his lip jutted out and he looked on the brink of tears, there had been no denying his little green, healing hands.

He pushes the thought aside and doesn’t give her the chance to counter, holding her tightly as he steps back from the ladder. Then she is clinging on tighter, legs locked around his waist, arms hooked over his shoulders and hands combing through his hair. They feel frenzied, but the movements of their lips remain firm and steady as he stumbles through the hull, peeking his eyes open every now and then just to make sure they don’t go crashing into any of the stacks of crates.

Her secure hold of him also gives him the opportunity to shuck off his gloves one at a time while still supporting her body against his, urging it closer if at all possible. He shuffles his feet, fumbling his way to the cot, and as it draws closer the nerves kick in.

He has never done this before, gets the basic idea, but feels the unwavering need to make Omera forget there was ever anyone else, could ever be anyone after him. It is selfish and petty, but his body shows no signs of slowing down, and his mind can conjure no other alternative.

There was a time when Din thinks he would have given almost anything to bring back Omera’s husband for her. Of course even back then he had wanted to be hers, he can admit that now, but he knew he wasn’t good for her, not in the way her husband must have been. But then she’d made him believe that maybe he could be worthy, and thoughts of Omera with anyone but him set his blood on fire in a far different way than now.

By now they are at the cot edge and Din decides to just throw caution to the wind and go full steam ahead. He lifts a knee onto the mattress, biting down on a grunt as the jolting movement causes her to squirm closer, and eases her back down onto his pillow. He had tightened his grip on her torso with the change in angle but now that she is settled, he adjusts his position above her. He is still leaning close but careful to not crush her beneath the beskar, all despite her best efforts at pulling him over her.

After a moment she breaks the kiss and gives his elbows a squeeze, a touch he is familiar with by now and knows it is in reassurance.

“You don’t have to hold your weight,” she speaks softly, looking up into his eyes, and he stops to take her in beneath him.

Her long hair fans out atop his pillow, pulled back softly from her face and the lengths disappearing from sight. He imagines them cascading over the edge of the mattress, curling at the ends and shining in the dull amber of the floor lights. Her cheeks are flushed, as are her lips, and her eyes are somehow heavy lidded while also being blown wide. His shadow is cast across her face, the smallest of movements allowing dim light to filter around him and illuminate her temple, her jaw, her collar bone.

To think this might finally be his Way.

He reaches a bare hand up to gently cup her cheek, fingers tucked around her sharp jaw, and his blood pulses through his wrist when she leans carefully into the touch.

“I don’t want to crush you under my armour,” he murmurs, pad of his thumb tracing the height of her cheekbone.

She stares at him for a moment, and he can’t possibly know what thoughts are dancing in her eyes, but then she turns her head and presses a tender kiss to his palm, warm lips lingering. She still watches him, moving to press a kiss to his vambrace next, leaning up onto an elbow and gauging his reaction before she does the same with his pauldran.

She presses a final kiss to the top edge of his chest plate then turns her face up to him, eyes imploring him softly, “Take it off?”

She says it so gently, hesitantly, and he knows it is because she is being careful to not offend. She’s trying to show her respect for his culture, his armour, and he thinks maybe she is trying to tell him she is happy either way. With or without the armour, she cared for _him_.

“Okay,” he replies just as softly.

Her lips spread into a gentle smile and she follows him as he lifts away from her to sit at the bed edge, “Can I help you?”

He hums in response and so they remove the armour together, each piece taken off and handled with such care as she stacks them on a nearby crate. While she is placing his weapons belt and blaster holster down, he removes the top of his under armour and cloak, boots tugged off and lined up at the foot of the cot. When she returns, he is sitting waiting for her, hands in nervous fists atop his thighs.

She steps between his legs and cradles his face, leaning down over him to capture his lips once more. He focusses thoroughly on following the movement of her mouth, the urgency and heat from before having quieted down during the task of removing his armour. Now she kisses him tentatively, lightly, and he struggles with what to do with his hands as they shake just barely on her waist.

He can feel as her lips curl into a smile, her nose butting his as she lets out a small laugh and places her hands over his, “You aren’t going to hurt me Din. You can hold me.”

_‘Like I know you want_ _to’_ seems to be the end to that sentence, one she doesn’t voice but all but assures with a firm guidance of her own hands on top of his.

And he lets her. Lets her press his hands into the dip of her waist as she nudges her forehead against his. But she doesn’t have to guide his hands any further as they wrapped around her of their own accord now, fingers splaying over the small of her back and tugging her in closer into the gap of his legs. He butts back into her forehead and uses the momentum to draw her lips in, every fibre of his being latching to her as he focusses on the slant and drag of warm lips and hot breath.

He doesn’t have to pull her legs around him like before, because she is moving forward herself, kneeling on the mattress on the outside of his thighs and running seeking hands up his arms. Her fingers taunt the muscle, massaging firmly, the pulse of each grip timed with a press down of her hips.

The first time makes his breath rush out in a turbulent current which she breathes in. The rhythm is steady, slow and firm, but his heart is the complete opposite. It is flighty and frantic, but he thinks hers is probably the same. He is a complete mess by the time she trails her fingers up into his hair again, and his have somehow made their way to her hips to follow her movements.

He thinks he is at real risk of losing his balance so manages to twist their bodies sideways, settling her back on the pillow and rolling his body partially on top of her. Their legs are a tangle of limbs and he doesn’t need her encouragement to pin her down with his weight now.

He is content to just kiss her as thoroughly as possible for a bit longer, work himself up to where this is heading, and she seems happy with the pace too. He wonders if she is as nervous as he is, if this is how it would have felt as a teenager, alone with a girl under him, moving forward for the first time.

He moves to run his lips along her neck, trails a gentle hand down her side simultaneously. He follows the dips and curves, the fabric of her dress telling of the warmth and smoothness beneath, and he relishes in the way her breath hitches and body jolts. He reaches her hip and draws lazy circles there as she becomes accustomed to his touch. And when she seems to settle, the electric shocks dissipating, he kisses back up to her ear.

“Can I?” he asks gently into her ear, rewarded with a full body shiver and her clutching him closer. “Tell me how.”

It has her drawing back to take him in with her eyes, flushed face serious but still inquisitive, and she watches him watch her as she takes a hold of his hand and guides him. It takes all his effort to not shake, nerves and hormones warring within him to the point that he struggles with the line between hesitance and confidence.

He follows her lead, kissing her when he gets self-conscious under her heavy gaze, though he gets the feeling he must be doing something right. When it proves to be a bit difficult to multitask and he worries his kissing expertise is severely dwindled when his focus is divided, he pushes his doubts aside and just simply watches the reactions on her face. The furrow of her brow and intense heat in her eyes, how she looks on the verge of saying something, only for it to die on a sigh.

She barely has to guide him at all, merely giving soft words of encouragement and panting breaths as cues that he is doing it right. Her hands clasp desperately around his forearm, blunt nails digging in, but she doesn’t use the grip to alter his movements. It is instead as if she needs the contact to ground her, the hold steady and constant despite the way the rest of her body squirms.

His chest swells with pride and he works to find the balance between building the tension and letting it all crash down around her.

At one point she mumbles something he cannot make out, a hand leaving his arm, seeking out towards him, then he understands. And as much as his barely restrained control urges him to let her, his mind wins the debate. This was for her, _about_ her, and he needs to be confident in his ability to make her feel good before he can consider himself.

Besides, watching her was just about enough for him anyway. He’d tried to be subtle, but he doubts she’s missed the intermittent rock of his pelvis, the movements he hadn’t had a hope of stopping with her laying before him like this.

So he uses his free hand, the one that’s elbow is propping him up, to gently halt her hand’s wandering, encircling her delicate wrist and bringing her hand to his cheek. He gives a gentle shake of his head, holding her hand there and turning to kiss her palm this time, as she’d done earlier.

But the look in her eyes is saddened, worried, and he realises she must think he doesn’t want it, maybe thinks it is some sort of rejection. That couldn’t be further from the truth and he knows he needs to prove it to her, so he presses firmly into her with his hips this time, so there is no mistaking.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to,” he begins, knows his face must already be flushed, and it reddens further if possible at the recognition in her eyes. He hides his face in her neck and breathes the confession against her feverish skin. “But this is about you.”

And she relents, whether because of his words or because he chooses that moment to change his technique, he isn’t sure, but her hand instead grips the nape of his neck firmly, back arching off the mattress.

He can see he has probably drawn it out long enough, her body sprung so tight by now, that he covers her mouth with an urgent kiss, greedily gulping down her startled whimper as her body slumps before him. He works to drag each lingering sensation from her, pulling back to watch the final expressions play across her face.

He sees the moment she recovers, for her pinkened cheeks deepen and a shy smile graces her freshly bitten lips. He gives a final soothing kiss and rolls off from his hovering position so that he lays on the cot facing her, watching as her heaving chest slowly settles.

He tries to stilt the smug smile that threatens to show on his face. He isn’t so self-assured to think it had been anything better than adequate, but as far as first efforts go, he figures he mustn’t have done too badly, and he is content to think that practice makes perfect.

She turns to him eventually, curled up on her side, eyes heavy and hands tucked in close to her chest. She looks like she wants to say something but can’t make the words flow, pretty smile never leaving her face even as her mouth opens and closes with muted sounds. But he thinks he gets it, thinks she is somehow trying to thank him, struggling with how one thanks another for such a thing. Especially when he’d denied her the usual methods.

So he smiles too and breathes a somewhat awkward laugh, “I hope that’s not how you solve everyone’s numb mouth complaint.”

She responds with a mock-appalled look, swatting at his shoulder lightly before her answering giggle chimes like a bell through the quiet hull.

"Well, _I_ hope that isn't how _you_ thank everyone."


End file.
